Myer. Ground Floor.

Between the front of the store (where I entered) and the back of the store (where I was headed – socks thirty percent off – the price, not the length of the toe) I made this observation: there is a shitload of perfume made. And then I wondered: who buys it all? And then I sneezed and so did my little boy.

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Who does buy it all, I wonder. I smell them wafting by, polluting my space. Annoying the hell out of my olfactory centre.
I smell them, polluting my meal out.
“Pardon me madam, but would you mind removing that stench from around my food?”

Individually, I think there are many beautiful perfumes. But even if you drown yourself in it, it still takes a loooong time to use one bottle of perfume. And really, there are rows and rows and rows of the stuff.